The Store in Which I Am Turned to a Widow

Ikea tells me my loneliness fascinates me. Ikea’s families are lovely teeth in the mill, luminous & effervescent, overflowing. Ikea, your neon-pink heart glows like a skirt in summer. Your loudspeaker interrupts your families. Ikea, your families know that your building is sterile—a barn amid the North’s pastures where I go to rest my little bones. Ikea’s mirrors tell me my bones are large as egg hunts. Ikea’s installations make me want to crack eggs into my mouth like a small dove. I’m telling Ikea of a nighttime melody. How outside of Ikea’s window the nighttime wind tilts like a folk song. Ikea has rugs shaped like windows. Ikea, if you step on a window’s shards, you will cut your limbs in half. I wish I could say that I wish this for you, Ikea. I want to tell you, Ikea, about the families of bears I drew when I was young. How when I’m with you, Ikea, I know that my name ought to be Alice. I ought to be tall, blonde, thin as wildflower. I can go to Ikea with anybody and flail in love with them strictly out of the loneliness I wear like a more formless gown. Ikea stops the red train within my mind from moving. Ikea remains an asterisk. Ikea is plush chair gone awry. Ikea, your slices of chocolate cakes I love and dread. Ikea fluorescence. Ikea and the memories to which I am unable to give myself access. Ikea is a linguistic chamber of desire—in Swedish, Hej is hello. This makes sense to me, you, Ikea. Ikea, you are a fortress shaped by water. Ikea, within you I am but a flock of myself. Ikea, hug me because I am your doll.